


How Does It Feel To Be Divine?

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Breastfeeding, F/M, Lactation Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never asks for it. Jon would never dream of such a thing. Sansa thinks it probable he could never even admit out loud that he yearns for something so unorthodox (though she suspects it’s not so much unorthodox as unmentioned, yet another aspect of the marriage bed no one speaks of in polite company). But she’d seen how he watched her when she nursed their babe, longing plain on his face, as keen as a sharp blade. She’d seen it and her own longing had answered. Jon has never truly had a mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Does It Feel To Be Divine?

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: breastfeeding.

He never asks for it. Jon would never dream of such a thing. Sansa thinks it probable he could never even admit out loud that he yearns for something so unorthodox (though she suspects it’s not so much unorthodox as unmentioned, yet another aspect of the marriage bed no one speaks of in polite company). But she’d seen how he watched her when she nursed their babe, longing plain on his face, as keen as a sharp blade. She’d seen it and her own longing had answered. Jon has never truly had a mother.

She'd always thought this was something only for babes, something serene and maternal and pure. But Jon's mouth suckling at her teat, hungry and insistent, never makes Sansa feel anything close to serene or maternal, and the only pure thing about it is the hot pleasure that tugs in her belly and between her legs at the pull of his lips and tongue. His beard is rough against her fingers as she strokes her hand from temple to jaw, keeping pace with the long, sweet pull of his mouth, one that feels so very different from when she nurses their babe. With Jon, there are no tiny fists pressed against her teat, no fussing or fidgeting. No motherly glow that suffuses her and makes her feel entirely at peace. Instead there is only pleasure; not the urgent pleasure she’s grown used to from their coupling, but a lazy sort of bliss that has her curling into the tug of his lips, cradling his head to her teats as his hand traces soft circles on the underside of her arm. She’s even dozed off once or twice while he suckled at her, her brief dreams sweet and so potent that she peaked in a soft, rolling wave even without his hand between her legs to encourage it. She’d not expected this to be for her as much as it is for him.

He’d needed some encouragement at first. She’d invited him to her chambers after she’d fed Lyanna for the afternoon, her breasts still a bit achy and fuller than usual after a feeding. When she tugged his head into her lap, he’d gone willingly, happily, nuzzling against the underside of her teats with a touch that tickled through the linen of her shift. It was only when she unlaced the bodice that his eyes had grown dark, his tongue pink as he touched it to his upper lip. A throb ached between her legs, matched by the wet warmth at her teat, one drop welling from the peak and rolling down to her ribs, making her shiver even though it was warm against her skin.

“Sansa,” Jon said, his tone almost pleading, as if she were tormenting him. He sat up, attempting to lace up her bodice, but she stopped his hands with hers. Insistently, she parted her shift around her breasts once more, marveling at the heat in his eyes, the longing on his face. A cooing noise escaped her – one she later realized she makes with Lyanna when she nurses as well – and she curled one hand behind his neck to urge his lips against her.

“Please,” she whispered. He practically vibrated against her, his longing palpable, before finally settling in her lap with a sigh, his tongue catching the moisture beneath her breast and chasing it to the peak before opening to suckle.

“Oh,” she sighed. “ _Oh_.” He’d suckled her until the sun dropped low in her window, first at one teat then the other until she was empty. Then he’d pulled her down to the bed, rolling atop her to slide inside her, whispering hotly in her ear as they coupled about giving her another babe to feed. She’d never peaked so hard in her life.

He comes to her each afternoon now, after Lyanna has been fed and put down to sleep. At first he’d made the pretense that he was merely visiting. His blush had spoken of his shame. But shame has no place behind the closed door of their chambers, Sansa had decided that long ago. And she never feels as close to him, never feels so full and lush and very nearly holy, as she does when he lies with her, his mouth at her breast.

“Lyanna’s growing like a weed,” he says quietly to her one particularly lazy afternoon, after he’s fed at her teats for half an hour and then settled his mouth between her legs for near twice as long, giving her release after release. His cheek lies between her breasts, his breath cool as it feathers over one peak, making it stiffen and pebble. “Soon she won’t need to be nursed.”

Sansa hears the wistfulness in his voice, sad and sweet like the sweep of his fingers on her belly. She hears all the things he doesn’t say, all that he’s longed for since he was only a boy. All the things she’s felt such pleasure in giving to him.

“Well,” she says, his hair twining about her fingers, hair that’s even softer than the gentle smile she feels curling her lips. “I suppose you’ll have to give me another babe, won’t you?”


End file.
